


fall (falling)

by Damkianna



Category: Dark Matter (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Extra Treat, Festivals, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Trick or Treating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27441586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: "Look, you were talking about boring stuff before," Three said, shameless, unapologetic. "But seriously, we're going back there? What time of year is it? What's their orbital period—four hundred days? Four-fifty?""The orbital period of the planet of Burnham is four hundred and thirty-four days," the android said. "The southern hemisphere is currently experiencing—mid-autumn.""Booyah!" Three said.
Relationships: Six | Griffin Jones/Three | Marcus Boone
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	fall (falling)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



> All my apologies for sneaking this treat in so close to reveals—I noticed your prompts for Three, harvest festivals, and sex pollen, and that you were open to Three/Six, and couldn't stop myself, even though I knew I wasn't going to be able to finish this on time. Hope you enjoy, and happy (very late) ToT! ♥

Three wasn't paying attention to Two.

Six could tell. It had become habit, ingrained, to keep an eye on Three, all those long months they'd spent fighting to stay one step ahead of the black ships, the aliens. Three had saved their asses more than once by going stock-still, tense and shuddering— _feeling_ them coming, inside his head. But sometimes he hadn't been able to get a word out, make a sound at all, when it happened. So Six had started watching him all the time, looking for it.

It was over, now. The black ships were gone. But there was some part of Six that still hadn't quite gotten the message, something that still had his gaze reflexively settling on Three every chance it got.

Two was talking about where they were going to head next, that she'd gotten a tip on a job they could take, and from Truffault of all people. That it would be a long haul, if they didn't use the blink drive for it, but she felt like they could all stand to take the scenic route for a little while. That the trip could be divided into three legs, could take them past Burnham—

That was when Three suddenly came to attention, blinking. "Wait, what?" he said. "Burnham? For real?"

"Figured that might get your attention," Two said pointedly; but her mouth was soft, slanting just a little.

"Look, you were talking about boring stuff before," Three said, shameless, unapologetic. "But seriously, we're going back there? What time of year is it? What's their orbital period—four hundred days? Four-fifty?"

"The orbital period of the planet of Burnham is four hundred and thirty-four days," the android said. "The southern hemisphere is currently experiencing—mid-autumn."

"Booyah!" Three said.

"I'm sorry," Six said, "but—'back there'? When have we been there before?"

Everyone looked at him. That in itself gave him half an answer: Ryo was as unreadable as always, but Two and Five looked like they'd just remembered something that hadn't occurred to them—and Wexler looked just as confused and curious as Six felt.

So Wexler didn't know, either; it had to have been before he'd come onboard. Which meant it had probably been—

"That's right," Five said, "it was while you were off working with the independent colonies. Listen, it's great, you're going to _love_ it," and she had her most earnest, big-eyed face on, because she always hated any reminder that they'd ever been apart, that they'd ever been less of a crew than they were now.

And they were, now. Six wouldn't have expected it, not with Ryo the way he was with his memories back, not with Wexler—but they were. Facing off against the black ships had forged all kinds of unlikely alliances, the GA and the _Raza_ and the corporations, Anders and Truffault and Calchek; free synthetics who hadn't wanted to be turned into hosts for alien parasites, and everything that had been left of Zairon, once Teku had taken control. And it had worked on each of them, too. They'd fought together, nearly died for each other half a dozen times apiece. Even Wexler had admitted, once they'd gotten him drunk enough, that he didn't want to screw them over, wouldn't even if he had the chance.

"Just thought it might be nice to make a pit stop," Two was saying.

"Well," Six said. "Sounds good." He paused. "Why does it matter whether it's fall?"

"Oh, just wait till we get there, man," Three said, sage. "You'll see."

_See_ was exactly the right word. The southern hemisphere of Burnham was beautiful, in the fall.

The _Marauder_ landed in a clearing—one of a handful, among a forest of towering trees. The leaves of the most common species were tiny, perfectly formed, their coverage thick; thousands, tens of thousands, on each tree. And the coloration they took on in the planet's autumn—there had to be a reason for the variation, temperature or exposure to sunlight, how much water reached each tree's roots. But the effect was incredible: every color from the palest, most delicate yellow to a red so dark it was nearly black, every shade in between, bright golds and peach pinks, blistering oranges. The ground was covered with them, too. And the atmosphere was thick, comfortably breathable, the sky a deep and vibrant blue.

Three stepped off the shuttle ramp, tipped his head back and drew a long slow breath. "Damn," he said quietly, and Six—

Six was watching him, and still couldn't figure out how to stop.

It was good to see him like this, that was all. Helpless, deep down. It was good to see him standing in Burnham's red-gold sunlight, face turned up into it; it was good to see his shoulders low, loose, instead of tucked up around his ears.

It had been weeks since the last of the black ships. But Three had stayed tense anyway, like he'd gotten into the habit of feeling hunted, and he couldn't break it any better than Six had been able to break the habit of staring at him all the time. He hadn't been sleeping, pale and glassy-eyed. Too quiet even when he was drunk, which had been a warning sign all its own, not that Six had needed one.

But now—he looked better. He looked like he was going to be okay.

Three let his chin drop, opened his eyes and glanced around, and Six had to jerk his gaze away, clear his throat and try hard not to look like he'd been staring for no good reason. "Have to say, I don't think of you as a guy who gets excited over foliage," he said, and he even managed to keep it pretty even.

"I mean, you have to admit, it's really something," Three said, "but just wait until we get to town." He paused. "Hey, robot, where's town?"

"There is a moderately-sized settlement in that direction," the android answered promptly, pointing, even though she was fussing with the _Marauder_ 's hatch controls and not actually looking up.

"Fantastic, thanks," Three said, and then ambled two steps closer, close enough to bump Six with an elbow. "They got this booze here you aren't going to believe."

"Of course they do," Six murmured, but his mouth was tugging up at the corners and he couldn't be bothered to try to stop it.

"Seriously," Three said, "it's fantastic. This weird apple honey stuff—they sell it mulled, it's the best damn thing you'll ever put in your mouth."

He wasn't wrong.

The android hadn't been wrong, either; there was a town not far away, in exactly the direction she'd indicated. Busy place, bustling, but everybody Six could see was smiling. And they were absolutely selling some kind of mead, warmed up and full of spices—exactly what he wanted, after walking through the woods for ten minutes had let the nip in the air creep through his clothes.

It was fine if you were standing in the sun, if the breeze died down. But it had been chilly under the trees, and the drink warmed him up inside and out: his hands, around the mug it had been served in, and his gut, the first swallow going down smooth and sweet.

"See? They do this for like a month," Three said next to him, gesturing with his own mug toward the booth that was selling the stuff—and then to the people laughing around them, a circle moving in some kind of dance a little further along the street, the hanging lanterns done up with panes of colored paper. The sun was up, but dropping low, and half of them were already lit, in the lees of the buildings, wherever there was a shadow to fend off. "Biggest harvest festival in this whole sector, or at least that's what they tell everybody."

"I'd believe it," Six said, taking another sip. Probably if you lived here year-round, it was just another part of the season; but coming in like this on the _Marauder_ , it was like landing in autumn itself, like the whole planet was made out of it. The trees, the leaves, the reddish tinge to the sunlight—the smell, apples and warmth and woodsmoke.

And Three angled a grin at him, almost as warm as the mead, and said, "Right?"

A kid stopped in front of them, messy hair just barely caught back by a braid. "Trick or treat?" they piped, breathless, eyes round and excited.

"Oh, hey, check this out," Three said to Six, and then held out a hand to the kid and said, "Treat, thanks."

"Sure thing, mister," the kid said, unhesitating. They'd had both hands behind their back; now they drew one out, and gave Three the apple they'd been holding in it.

"Sweet," Three said, turning it around: it was red and yellow, perfectly ripe, unbruised. He took a bite, and then said, chewing without shame, "They did this back on Earth, apparently—android gave us a whole spiel about it last time. Not quite the same here as it used to be, I guess; people ask you and you pick, and they give you what you ask for. Trick and they'll prank you. Nothing that'll hurt you, just, you know. Kid probably had a tarantula in the other hand or something. Treat," and he held up the apple, pale flesh showing where he'd bitten from it, "they give you something nice. Just little stuff, but."

"Huh," Six said, and then caught himself watching Three's throat work as Three swallowed the bite of apple, and made himself look away.

He was expecting Three to ditch him within about ten minutes. Go off and join the dancing, get steadily drunker—find somebody he liked the look of, and then in a couple hours Six would have to haul him out of some corner where he'd fallen down drunk with his pants around his ankles, and carry him back to the _Marauder_.

He wouldn't even have minded. Not this time. If anybody deserved a break, deserved to cut loose now that they were out from under the shadow of the black ships, it was definitely Three. Six couldn't have held it against him.

But it didn't happen.

Three stuck with him. They wandered around the edges of the crowd for a while—watched the dancing, listened to the music. Nursed their drinks, and Three finished off the apple, core and all, and seemed satisfied with that. He didn't go find someplace to sit down, didn't start hunting for a refill on the mead. As the sun dropped lower, started to really go down, he tucked himself closer to Six, until their arms were brushing, touching, every time he shifted his weight.

People started to set out braziers of hot coals, roasting fruit or meat over them or just crowding around for the extra heat. Six saw Five go by, among the dancers, and then, much more surprisingly, Two. He pointed them each out, and Three laughed both times, eyes crinkling up at the corners—clear, blue, like they were supposed to be; not even a hint of that slick alien black.

It was nice.

It was about the same time the first stars were starting to come out over them that Three turned to Six and said, "Thanks."

Six blinked at him. "For what?"

Three looked at him and then away, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck, and he was—maybe it was just the light, red coals and lanterns in orange paper, but he looked flushed. "You were," he said, and then stopped and swallowed. "You helped a lot. I didn't—I didn't say it then, but you did. When I—with the—and after."

Six was pretty sure he could untangle that, despite Three's best efforts. "Should've done more," he said quietly. "Sorry."

He could still remember the first time. The Dwarf Star facility, that rift; the way Three had _felt_ it, felt the aliens before they'd come.

The way Six had helped hold him still, until he could be drugged into unconsciousness.

He hadn't understood then how important it was going to turn out to be—the traces the aliens had left in Three's mind, that it had made Three sensitive to their presence. He'd tried hard to make up for that. He'd tried hard to do better.

He always did. But it would be great, he thought grimly, if someday he could manage to do better without having had to fuck up first.

"Hey," Three said, and gripped him by the shoulder.

Six looked at him.

"You did a hell of a lot. Don't give me that look, I mean it. You were—you were there for me, man. Sometimes—" He stopped again, bit at his mouth; suddenly he didn't seem able to meet Six's eyes. "Sometimes you were the only thing I knew was real," he said at last, lower, so quiet Six almost couldn't hear it over the music.

Six felt his throat tighten. His eyes stung. "Three," he heard himself say, and he fumbled a hand up to Three's wrist where Three was hanging on to him, and hung on back.

"So—thanks," Three said again.

Six laughed a little through his nose. And he needed to let go; he knew he needed to let go. But he didn't do it.

"Trick or treat?"

They blinked at each other, and then turned their heads at the same time to look at the woman who'd come up to them.

She was beaming, looking back and forth between them, one eyebrow raised a little, because they were—they were still kind of clinging to each other, standing closer than they usually did.

Three's hand loosened, lightened; skidded a little until it was on Six's upper arm and not his shoulder. But he didn't actually pull it away.

"Aw, c'mon, why do we have to pick?" he said, and waggled his eyebrows.

The woman laughed, and then gave them both a teasing, assessing sort of look. "I think I have just the thing," she said, confiding, and she'd already dug one hand into a sachet at her waist. She drew it up, opened it palm-up in front of her face, and Six had about two seconds to grasp that there was something on it, some kind of dust she'd had closed in it, before she pursed her lips and blew.

It was light, fine dust, sparkling a little in the firelight. It made a cloud, right in their faces, and Six closed his eyes reflexively, twitched away—not far enough to avoid breathing it in, though, and he coughed through it a little and then sneezed.

"What the hell," Three said, and then sneezed too.

"Hey, you could've picked," the woman said with a shrug, already turning away. "Have fun, boys!" and then she went half a dozen steps, right into the circle of dancers, and was swept up with them.

"Weird," Three said, and then coughed. He let go of Six's arm at last, and Six let him have his hand back so he could rub it over his face, blinking the dust out of his eyes. "Well. Refill?"

"Sure," Six said, and tried not to wish he could take Three's wrist in his grasp again. That would be—pointless. Pointless, awkward, and Three wouldn't go along with it anyway.

They went and got more mead, filled the cheap clay mugs right back up to the brim. And then over it, in Three's case; some of it slopped down the side and over his knuckles, and he made a face, laughed and swapped the mug to his other hand so he could lick the spill off his fingers.

Six didn't mean to watch him do it. But—damn.

He felt warm, he thought. Warm. Hot. He found himself plucking at his shirt, fingers at the collar, even though about ten minutes ago he'd been aware that it was the chilliest it had been all day.

Three was hot, too. Looked hot. Flushed, not—or, well, obviously Six had already known he was—but that wasn't—

Six blinked, slower than usual. His head felt strange, light, and his thoughts even lighter, like they were floating right out of it before he could finish them.

"Hey," Three was saying, and he'd swayed close, was breathing the word right into Six's ear. "Hey, come on. Come on, let's go."

They were touching each other again. Six didn't quite know when that had happened. They stumbled off together, underneath the bright swaying lanterns, until they were right at the edge of town, one big old tree standing apart from the woods beyond. Six realized, dim and belated, that they were still clutching their mugs. He lifted his to his mouth and drank—and damn, it was good; it was _so_ good, warm and sweet, even better than it had tasted before.

"Hey," he said to Three, "hey, this stuff is _great_."

"Yeah," Three said dreamily, and tipped his own mug back—a little too far, spilling some mead across his cheek and jaw, and he startled at the sensation, dropped his mug and laughed and started swiping at his face.

Six laughed, too. "Here," he said, "here, hang on," but Three wouldn't hold still. Six shook his head at him, chiding, and let his own mug fall, got his hands wound in Three's shirt and pushed him back unsteadily until he hit the trunk of that big tree. Then, Six thought vaguely, he'd have to hold still. Perfect solution.

He held Three with a hand on his chest, and lifted the other to Three's face. The mead was good stuff, but sugary, sticky; Six's fingertips caught not just against Three's stubble, his beard, but against his skin, clinging a little.

He made a face, and Three laughed again—it felt weirder now, though, not just a sound but a sensation, a vibration in the hand Six had pressed to his chest. His face moved with it, too, his mouth curving under Six's fingers. Because—

Because Six was touching his mouth.

That should have been weird. Right? Six didn't usually do that. He tried hard not to do that, in fact. He just couldn't quite remember why.

Because right now, it just felt good. Everything felt good, crisp and clear and full of light: the woods, the starry sky, the bright swaying lanterns just behind them. Three's chest felt good under Six's palm, warm and solid under the fabric of Three's shirt, Three's heart strong and steady. And Three's mouth—Three's mouth was thin, slanting, sort of soft. It was nice like this, when Three was grinning, laughing. It was nice all the time.

Three's jaw was still sticky. Six wanted to lick it; and he couldn't think of any reason why he shouldn't, so he did.

Three wasn't laughing anymore. He gasped instead, sudden and ragged, and his hands came up and clutched at Six's shoulders. "Holy shit," he said in Six's ear, breathless, and Six figured he didn't mean it in a bad way, and licked him again—ran his mouth down the line of Three's jaw, pushed his chin up and pressed his tongue to the underside, and there was hardly any mead there but he didn't particularly care.

It was just so easy. It was so easy, and it felt so good. Having Three right there in front of him; holding him there, pressing up against him. Touching him all over, his face, his throat—Six got frustrated with the barrier of his shirt, fumbled for the waist of it and managed to shove it up and get his hands under it, and that was a lot better.

Three returned the favor, going for Six's waist, except it turned out it wasn't to shove Six's shirt up. He was—he'd started grappling with Six's belt instead, and fuck, that was a fantastic idea. Six hadn't even realized he was hard, until the heel of Three's hand bumped his cock through his pants, and fuck, he was _so_ hard. Suddenly that crisp clearness wasn't just about the night around them; Six felt so, so aware of the length and motion of Three's eyelashes, the flicker of his tongue against his lower lip as he panted, the faint tiny tremble in his hands as he touched Six.

It was amazing. Six never wanted it to stop.

They were clumsy as hell, getting in each other's way every two seconds as they tried to feel each other up, jerk each other off. It didn't matter. It felt so good anyway, unbearably good; Six couldn't think, couldn't do anything but react, breathing noises he didn't even try to stop into the side of Three's throat, thrusting up into Three's hands, chasing every single piece of Three he could get close to. Three gripped him by the nape of the neck, turned his face into Six's and kissed him, and that was the best of all—Six grabbed Three's face, shoved his tongue into Three's mouth with jubilant desperation, and then came all over Three's wrist.

Three took a little longer, but not by much. Six didn't mind: it was easier now that he'd come himself, now that he could focus better on what he was doing, the way Three was reacting. Because it was a treat and then some, the way Three shivered and shuddered against him, Three's cock hot and already spilling a little in his hand, Three's gasps and bitten-off sounds as Six touched him and teased him and then finally tipped him over the edge.

After they were done, they stood there for a few minutes, braced against the tree, panting in each other's ears. It was just as good as the rest of it had been, at first; Six felt warm, blissfully satisfied, pleased with himself, plastered to Three with his hands pushed up under Three's shirt, nothing but happy about it.

And then, by slow degrees, his head started to clear.

It had felt clear, before. It had felt fantastic, everything so straightforward, so easy. But now it _was_ clear, or getting there. And shit. He hadn't meant to—he hadn't been planning to—shit.

He swallowed. He was still leaning in against Three, face tucked into the side of Three's throat; his hands were still smoothing aimlessly along the small of Three's back, sheltering the skin where he'd pushed Three's shirt up from the bark of the tree.

He should probably stop.

Except, he thought, if he did—what would Three think? Six hadn't meant to do this, at least not this way. But if he had, then he didn't want to fuck it up. He—

He wanted to get this right the first time.

He drew a slow breath. And then he steadied himself, lifted his head and moved back, but just far enough to meet Three's eyes.

Three was sobering up now, too, coming down off whatever that dust had been. Six could see it in his face, the way his glance darted all over, the uncertain tension around his mouth; and he could feel it in Three's body, stiffness starting to work its way up a spine that had been liquid five minutes ago.

Six drew a breath. And then he touched Three's chin, caught it between two fingertips and a thumb, and that finally made Three look straight at him.

"Uh, Six," Three said, uneven.

Six kissed him.

Not like before, hot and sudden and deep, swept away. This time he made it slow, thorough. Deliberate, so Three would know he'd done it on purpose, that it wasn't the mead or the dust—that he wanted to.

When he thought he'd made his point, he let Three go, and eased away.

Three stared at Six, and wet his lips. His mouth was red.

"Yeah?" he said, after a second.

"Yeah," Six said. "I didn't plan on getting drugged by some woman trying to mess with us at a harvest festival," he added wryly. "But—yeah."

"Oh," Three said. "Uh. Okay."

Six raised an eyebrow at him; and he stared at Six and wet his lips again, and then laughed.

That had to be a good sign.

The air around them felt chilly again—the dust had definitely worn off. Six pressed closer, rubbed his free hand up Three's arm and shoulder, and Three didn't pull away, didn't push him off. That was a good sign, too.

"You were right," Six said.

"What?"

"You were right," Six repeated. "This place is really something."

And Three looked at him for a long moment, eyes narrowed, a flicker of something uncertain crossing his face; and then he bit his lip and started to smile. Slow, wider and wider, like he couldn't help it. Like he was happy.

"Told you so."

"Yeah," Six agreed, and kissed him again—and this time, Three kissed back.


End file.
